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Mark had lost all ability to control his smile. His foot tapped the floor below the drafting easel as he stared at the endless blue of sky outside the bowed windows. The expanse offered a canvas to display the images that repeated in his mind—mainly, the look of acceptance on Claire’s face in the instant before they kissed.
They had advanced a step toward something grander than friendship. Although he’d erred in kissing her in public, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t summon even a smidgen of guilt over it. It was the only time he’d touched her last night. He hadn’t even taken her arm as he accompanied her home. He surmised from her refusal to let him see her as far as the house that she still hadn’t told her parents about her connection with him.
That begged the question, where did they go from here? How did they move forward? He didn’t want to rush her, but neither could they return to their former relationship.
An hour later, as Mark attempted to add the finishing touches to a scrolled design above the street-side door of the Lefler project, Claire arrived for their meeting with Mr. Dover.
Yesterday, she had made the changes to the guesthouse, and he’d approved them. Now, with his lack of busywork for her to do, she stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. How was he supposed to focus when her every movement drew his attention like a shooting star?
Mark couldn’t work this way. Did she realize how he tortured himself with the need to kiss her again?
He’d had a lot to lose with the move to Riverport. Meeting Claire doubled the stakes. If he lost his business and his reputation, and was forced to return to Chicago, most assuredly, he would lose her, too. What woman wanted to associate with a failure?
Act like a man and steel yourself to the circumstances with a stiff upper lip.
Because she’d changed the subject when he tried to bring up what happened at the baseball field, he might as well settle for that stiff upper lip. Her softer ones were once more unattainable.
Claire moved to his side. “He’ll be here soon.”
“I know.”
“What will you show him?”
Mark laid a hand on the stack of sketches for Charles Dover. He’d stayed up into the wee hours finalizing his ideas, pleased with a specific elevation. It answered the problem plaguing him for weeks. This plan took advantage of the beautiful surroundings of the Dover lot. His eyes had blurred to the point of barely seeing the paper, much less completing an interior layout.
“I’m ready. However, I’m not sure I can concentrate on presenting it properly when such a lovely assistant attracts my attention with her every move.”
Claire glared at him—a counterfeit glare, he hoped. She shrugged a shoulder with a show of indifference and sat in the extra chair he’d purchased a week ago.
Even though she’d raised a wall between them, and it was his challenge to erode it little by little, he was grateful that he no longer stared up at her.
Deliberately withholding his favorite, Mark seized four other sketches and handed them to her. “Tell me what you think of these.”
She flipped through them, barely taking them in, then she started over, this time giving each sketch a proper amount of attention. As she worked through each, her mouth pursed more and more. Was that good? Bad? He couldn’t tell.
Mark drummed his fingers on the surface of the table to match the beat of the pulse that drummed in his ears. This was worse than the day he’d turned in the draft of his first sketch at D. H. Burnham and waited for the verdict.
She went back to the third sheet. “I would begin with this one.”
“Why?”
“I like it best.”
That was it? “I hoped for more input. What’s wrong with the others? You don’t think he’ll like them?” Why shoot questions at her like an insecure novice?
“There’s nothing wrong with them.”
“But?” She forced him to add that tiny word to draw out the truth.
She released a frustrated sigh. “They are all good elevations, Mark, but I’m not convinced any of them will work for Mr. Dover. They don’t satisfy his primary request to save as many trees as possible.”
Mark spread the papers on the table and studied them for the hundredth time. He rubbed his tired eyes with the heels of his hands. She was right, of course. He reached for the one he’d held back.
“I agree. But they are possibilities in the event he doesn’t like this one.” He handed her the sketch.
Claire laid it on the table in front of her. She bent to study it, and those pastel eyes grew larger with every second she scrutinized the drawing.
Her silence heightened his skittish heartbeat. “Without all the gables and fancy detail, the simplicity of the elevation allows it to blend in with the scene in which it’s set and not the other way around. I believe it will also lend itself to some of your ideas for the interior. We can—”
“I don’t need convincing.” She turned to him and smiled. “This is striking and distinctive. There is a definite feel for nature in the outline of the roof and the house in general. What about the floor plan?”
“It’s rough at the moment.” He grabbed a pencil. “I see the main rooms of the house in the front. The rear is angled to give the structure a triangular shape to accommodate the wooded area. Like this.” He drew linear and angular lines that formed an irregular triangle with the depth on the southeast side of the house. The more he drew, the harder his heart beat with the excitement of finalizing the plan. “There’s a slight break in the trees here”—he pointed to the northwest side—“so we’ll include ample windows to overlook the yard to the creek.”
Claire straightened and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Mark, I think you’ve—”
The outer office door closed with a discernable click.
“That must be Mr. Dover.” Her hand leapt from his shoulder as though the sound lit a fire that scorched her palm. For him, the fire still smoldered.
Mark dropped the pencil and pulled his suit coat from the back of his chair. A coat rack was on his list of items to purchase soon. He entered the front office followed by Claire.
Dover’s secretary stood at the desk. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gregory, Mrs. Kingsley. Mr. Dover sent me with his regrets. He’s had to leave town unexpectedly and will be unable to meet with you today. He apologizes but won’t return for almost three weeks. He asks if the sixth of July will fit into your schedule.”
Three weeks? He checked the calendar. That was after the Lefler design was due and before learning whether he’d advance to the next round of the competition. “That would be fine with me. I assume he’ll still want Mrs. Kingsley in the meeting. Will that work for you, Claire?”
“I believe so.”
The man pulled a small book from his pocket and wrote the appointment in it. “He wanted me to assure you that he is eager to see and discuss your ideas.”
After the secretary left, Mark gathered his sketches. “I have a good idea of the interior layout, but until we meet with him, we can’t proceed too far. The good news is that I can now finalize the Lefler design.”
Truthfully, the Lefler project took priority over his other work. It was the project with the potential to bring him the success he desperately desired...or ruin him.
“How is it coming?”
“Good. It’s taking shape.”
He had come a long way in drafting a design for the businessman but had much work to do before personally delivering it to Mr. Arbuckle in Chicago next Wednesday. Time was running out on both the deadline for the design and the deadline to meet his loan. However, his confidence in his current plan had begun to deteriorate.
“While I work on it, you can take that sketch we talked about before Dover’s secretary arrived and draft some ideas for the interior details.”
She hesitated, the same as she had done whenever he’d asked her to work on a project. “Mark, I have a plan at home I’d like to show you. Richard and I designed a house for our personal use but never...” She drew in a breath. “We never built it. I think many of the interior elements will work with the Dover house. Would you like to see it?”
Mark’s enthusiasm fell. “I’m sorry, Claire. I won’t consider implementing a plan from another architect.”
“The design is mine. There are no issues in using it.”
He turned back to the drawing table. “Dover is paying for my work, not someone else’s.”
“Mr. Dover is paying for something from both of us.”
“Exactly. You and I.” Not her husband’s. His sigh broke the prolonged quiet in the room. “Please, just come up with some interior samples to go along with this idea.”
“Whatever you say.”
That tiny pout tempted him to wrap her in his arms and kiss it away.
Oh yes, working under these conditions tested the strength of his patience and integrity. Now, the question was where was his breaking point?
***
CLAIRE STROLLED WITH her parents along the sidewalk toward the restaurant down the street. Her mother paused outside the grocer’s and examined the broccoli stacked in a bin between rhubarb on one side and asparagus on the other. It wasn’t unusual for her to suddenly stop at such displays.
Claire and her father had no choice but to wait—right across the street from the building housing Mark’s office. She contended with the temptation to glance in that direction. It wouldn’t do to draw her parents’ attention since she still hadn’t told them about working with Mark. Nor had she said anything about attending the baseball game with him or her upcoming move.
Ma picked up a broccoli spear and the top slumped. She dropped it back in the box and dusted her gloves, a sign she’d dusted the poor vegetable from consideration.
A steady clip-clop and children’s laughter announced the approach of a vehicle—Judge Danby’s open barouche. Claire waved to Edythe, who sat in the seat beside her father and across from her three restless children. “Edythe!”
The judge’s daughter searched for the person calling her name. When she spotted Claire, she returned the wave in a friendly manner, yet as restrained as the woman herself. Edythe’s father said something to her, and she turned to speak to the children.
Claire worried about her. The judge was known as a respected man of the court, though gossip said he was an unpleasant man in the home. Claire suspected him to be one of the reasons for Edythe’s keen participation in the Widow’s Might group. Their meetings were an escape from his control. They were also an escape from the antics of her high-spirited children.
Claire’s gaze shifted and her smile froze.
Crossing the street, Mark dodged two carriages and stopped on the sidewalk next to her. “Good evening, Mrs. Kingsley.”
Dread rose in Claire. She’d hesitated in letting him walk her to the door after the baseball game. Didn’t that show him she still hadn’t told her parents about them? Yet, he’d purposely crossed the street to greet her. “Good evening.”
She glanced toward the second floor of his building. His mother watched from the window, aiming a hostile glower at Claire. Apparently, the truce between them had expired.
Next to her, Claire’s father’s gaze dissected Mark in the way most fathers mentally tore apart male strangers who talked to their daughters on the street. She sought a way to get past this meeting without figurative bloodshed—hers—once her parents realized Mark’s identity.
Pa held out his hand, his brow now twisted with curiosity. “I’m John Pittman, Claire’s father.”
“Mark Gregory.” The two of them shook hands. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
“Gregory?”
Claire held her breath, waiting to see if he recalled where he’d heard the name, or if Mark would help him remember.
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you know our daughter, Mr. Gregory?” Leave it to her mother to come right out and ask.
“My mother and I are new in town. We met Mrs. Kingsley at Newland’s when she assisted my mother in her search for a new hat.”
The air left Claire’s lungs in relief.
“Regrettably, Mama found nothing to suit her that day. However, I was impressed by your daughter’s thoughtfulness and good humor. As her brother told me, she’s quite a saleswoman. I’m sure, in time, she and my mother will find common ground”—he paused a tick—“in hats.”
Claire’s unrestrained soft snort of disbelief brought her parents’ attention to center on her. Time to dispel any thoughts they might entertain as to she and Mark being anything more than customer and sales clerk. “Isn’t Miss Kowalski with you?”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. “She’s waiting in my office.”
“In that case, we wouldn’t want to keep you from her company. It was nice to see you again, Mr. Gregory.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. Mark wasn’t happy with her. Not at all. “Good night, sir. Mrs. Pittman.” Without a second glance at Claire, he crossed the street again.
Not only was he a good man, but one who had used discretion. And right now, he was a very angry man.
Her father’s mouth flattened as he aimed a pointed look in Claire’s direction. “He’s the new architect, isn’t he? I recall the newspaper article.”
Her deceptive efforts had proven useless. There would be no keeping the news from them now. “Yes, he is the new architect.”
That announcement drew a frown from her mother.
No further word was said on the street, and Claire followed her parents into The Moonglow Restaurant. She prepared to be sliced thin by the upcoming interrogation, like the roast beef her father always ordered.